Drunken (K)nights
by Poecilotheria
Summary: Two socially inept morons and copious amounts of alcoholic beverages. Enjoy responsibly. (Gijinka verse) (Contains slight Meta/Escargon if you wish to see it that way)
1. Chapter 1

Escargon wondered what cosmic deity had it out for him. It could be the only reason he ended up in so many terrible situations. It wasn't even fair really. Kirby was the one who was usually bothering various all powerful entities. He looked down at the scattered bottles and the very intoxicated man who had presumably generated them.

"I have blood" Meta said "in my alcohol stream." Escargon rubbed his temples. The knight was enough of a bother sober.

"What…" he paused, lost for words. "Why…. Why are you…?" Escargon gestured at the scattered bottles. Meta fixed him in a markedly unfocused gaze. He patted the floor next to him.

"Sit" he said. Escargon made a point of sitting across from him instead. The other man leaned forward, elbows resting on his legs. "So…you wanna know why I'm drinking?" he asked. Escargon felt a distinct sense of dread well up.

"I…suppose?" he said. Meta leaned even closer, yellow eyes boring into the other man.

"Because I'm fucking miserable!" he sang "And all my friends are dead!" Escargon leaned back, torn between faint sympathy and a healthy amount of fear. Meta could be volatile at the best of times and an elevated blood alcohol content certainly wasn't doing him any favors. This only caused Meta to further invade his space. "I can't even show my face. Fuckin pathetic" Escargon flinched. Meta was never crueler to anyone than he was to himself, it seemed.

"C-calm down" he sputtered. Meta only laughed, a cold and joyless sound. A sudden flash of movement caused Escargon to shield himself instinctively. A cacophony of metal on tile erupted, before an oppressive silence fell.

"See?" his voice was oddly soft "Nothing but scars." Escargon glanced up and suddenly saw a world weary man sitting across from him. Sharp features and dark hair clashed with the soft light of gray eyes. A wicked pair of scars ran right over the left eye, originating from the right. He noted how the other man's eye and mouth seemed to droop lower on the more damaged side. _Nerve damage.._ Escargon mused. The knight's helm lay scattered several feet away.

"You really don't look that bad..." he offered. Truthfully, the scarring did little to conceal that Meta was in fact drop-dead gorgeous, but he'd rather eat his own glasses before admitting that. Meta remained despondent.

"As a person I'm disgusting" he stated "What good has looks ever done me? Nothing, nothing at all. Never stopped 'em, not once." The insinuations of the other's ramblings formed a deep pit of sorrow and dread within Escargon.

"What did they..?" he started.

"They hated. They destroyed. They damaged." Meta gazed upwards for a long moment. "They made me who I am…"

"That isn't a bad thing really." Meta gave him a long look. Escargon bristled. "Look, you're definitely an asshole, but I've met worse who have much less of a reason to be!" Meta started laughing, but it was a genuine, unrestrained cackle, uninhibited by his usual reserve. He flashed a crooked smirk.

"Nicest thing I've heard in weeks" he chuckled. Escargon flinched, and wondered if the other man realized how depressing his statement was. He awkwardly laid a hand on his shoulder. Meta stiffened.

"You're way more tolerable when you're sober, however" he quipped. Meta relaxed, and looked at the other imploringly.

"Help me up then. I don't wanna sleep on the floor." After a considerable amount of effort, the two lumbered towards the knight's quarters. Finally, Escargon managed to get Meta seated on his bed. The man's room was clad in dark blues and purples, sharply contrasted against the numerous stark white diagrams plastered upon the wall. Escargon stood in front of him, hands on his hips.

"I'll be in the throne room tomorrow. And I don't want to hear you complaining about any hangovers!" he snapped.

"Sure" Meta paused as the other man began to leave. "Hey" Escargon stopped, and grouchily heeded Meta's motion for him to come closer.

"What is it thi-" he stopped as he saw the earnest look in Meta's eyes.

"Thank you" he said solemnly. Escargon nodded, before awkwardly scuttling away.

"N-no big deal" he squeaked out before fleeing, an unwelcome warmth burning in his cheeks. Meta waited until the footsteps faded before standing. The watered down garbage he'd snatched from the castle store had only served to get him tipsy. But somehow, he couldn't stop himself from pouring out all of his negativity. And he was certain Escargon was far too frightened of him to recount what he saw. He was a safe choice, the easiest option, and lacking fear of consequences he merely let everything tumble out. A small voice in the back of his mind laughed at him, muttering a thousand reasons for his actions that were far more troubling. Meta viciously silenced it, but he knew all too well it would return. Such troubling notions rarely stay buried.

 **(Author's note:** I really have no good excuse for this nonsense. Chapter two will be a counterpart of sorts. Hope you enjoyed, and as always, I love all feedback! -Poecilotheria)


	2. Chapter 2

"I'mmm fucking drunk" Meta eyed the man currently slumped over a table, sloshing wine out of his glass.

"I can safely say that I agree with that assessment" he quipped. Escargon looked up at him.

"Fuck offfffff" he slurred. Meta pulled up a chair and took a seat.

"Well now I'm certainly not leaving" there was a slight levity to his tone. The two had become significantly more amiable towards one other during the recent months, learning to enjoy the banter. Each held a measured amount of concern towards one another as well, likely due to frequently venting to each other (Though it was Escargon doing the venting the vast majority of the time).

"Whatever" Escargon sniffed, downing the final bit of liquid in his glass. Meta snatched the half empty bottle away, knocking an empty one aside. Escargon slumped further over the table, pathetically grasping at it.

"You've had more than enou-"the other man leaned too far, tipping the table and himself over onto the hapless knight. Wine splashed over his coat, and Escargon slid off from the upended table. He shoved it aside and snatched the bottle, noting that it was empty with disappointment.

"Isss empty" he muttered. Meta glared at him, wine droplets sliding from his helm.

"If you hadn't noticed, I happen to be wearing it now" he spat, pulling at his jacket now spattered with dark stains. Escargon gave him a long look, before pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. Meta gave a horribly undignified squeak as the drunken man placed his knee directly into his stomach.

"I'll clean it up fer ya" he said. Meta gently pushed him away with his foot.

"That won't be necessary" he said, deftly undoing the buttons of his jacket. He was thankful that he always wore multiple layers. Meta shrugged off the garment, revealing an armored vest and black shirt.

"Usually ya gotta pay for a show" Escargon said gleefully. He was met with an icy glare.

"You are treading upon dangerous territory." Had Escargon been sober, he would have picked up on the other man's threatening tone. Unfortunately, his brain cells were currently swimming in wine.

"Come ooooooon" he whined. Meta slid back slightly, bumping into the wall.

"You are horribly aggravating while intoxicated" he hissed "Go bother the king, won't you?" An instant somber silence fell over Escargon. Meta narrowed his eyes. "Are you drinking… because of him?" _If so, I understand completely…_ Meta added the final part mentally.

"Maybe….. yeah. I am" he mumbled. Meta shrugged.

"He can be entirely too aggravating at times-"

"That's not it." Meta looked up, and took note of how the other was staring into the tile forlornly. He sat upright.

"So you've had a falling out then?" he asked. Escargon laughed bitterly.

"If only" he said "I can handle that shit." Dread welled up within Meta's gut. He was inept at emotional comfort, and it was increasingly apparent it would be needed.

"So…what exactly is troubling you then?" he internally smacked himself for his awkward tone.

"He didn't….we don't…" Escargon paused, collecting himself. "It's…you know! Unre- unreq..."

"Your feelings are unrequited?" he supplied. The other man nodded. Meta tapped the floor, thinking deeply. Romantic matters were an impossible thing to grasp for him.

"I dun hate him… I'm just…" Escargon sniffed "'e's still my bud, ya know but-"

"I hardly think it is unjustified to be upset. Such things take time to heal." Meta hoped the bullshit he spat out made sense to Escargon somehow.

"Nooooooooo." Meta forced himself not to chuckle at the hilariously pathetic tone. Escargon scowled. "I'm juss a miserable lonely fuck… I shouldn't even…" he looked away "I shouldn't be surprised." Any remaining levity to his tone was long gone now. "Just an ugly old son of a-"

"There's no need to be so, er, harsh on yourself." Meta winced. What a pathetic attempt at comfort. He cleared his throat. "Misery and loneliness can be cured after all. And you certainly aren't hideous" he offered.

"I'm not hideous" Escargon deadpanned. Meta shrugged.

"I'm not very adept at compliments" he said. Escargon crossed his arms.

"Yeah well, yer a famous rich warrior guy. What've I got? Dumb facial hair." Escargon narrowed his eyes, and glared right at Meta. "Yer prettier 'n me too" he muttered bitterly. Meta let out a sudden laugh.

"I'm pretty now, am I?" he chuckled. The very thought of anyone finding him pretty of all things was intensely amusing. He was imposing, intimidating, reserved, and not at all _pretty._ A small voice in the back of his mind muttered that demons were never pretty. Meta really didn't care for the input.

"Yeah." Meta searched for sarcasm in the statement and found none.

"I would have to disagree" he said, trying to laugh. It sounded more like a quiet anxious wheeze. Escargon scratched his chin thoughtfully, before snapping his fingers. Or at least, trying to.

"Take off yer helmet" he quipped. Meta looked at him like he'd sprouted a third head after the second one had already appeared. "I already saw yer face before anyway." Meta recalled that night, two weeks ago. He sighed deeply, and slid off the helm. Some fresh air would be welcome at least.

"I hope you realize that I'm only complying out of pity-"

"I was right!" Meta flinched at the sudden shriek, and gave Escargon an annoyed glance.

"Is there a reason you found that necessary-"

"You are pretty!" Escargon said accusatorily. Meta blinked, and began to nervously chew his lip with pointed canines.

"What is your point here?" he stammered. Escargon paused, and flushed.

"My point is that yer a dumb rich asshole who gets more ass than me" he spat. Meta tilted his head, an odd look on his face.

"I don't run about having relations, if that's what you are insinuating" he huffed.

"You prolly could if ya wanted."

"Are you suggesting that I should be promiscuous?"

"Naaaah." Meta thought for a moment, before looking at the other man with widened eyes.

"Are you… propositioning me?" he said slowly. Escargon gave him a long look, and Meta seriously considering causing him bodily harm.

"No." he deadpanned. Meta raised an eyebrow at his curt tone. There was a long moment of silence. He stood abruptly. Escargon followed his movements with his gaze.

"Find me when you are sober, and we can continue this discussion" he said.

"Yeah whateverrrr" Escargon slurred. Meta slid his helmet back on, grabbed his coat, and took his leave. "Hey" Escargon called. Meta stopped in the doorway, and turned.

"What is it?" he said. Escargon gave him a lopsided smirk.

"I'm not even that drunk" he snickered.

Meta felt the distinct sensation of karma biting him in the ass.

( **Author's note:** Some headcanons about human Meta's appearance like the earlier chapter. I'm considering a third installment if the inspiration hits. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoying it! -Poecilotheria)


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